


Alexander & Cleitus

by Lilliburlero



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, lice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluellen is fed up with people mispronouncing his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alexander & Cleitus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angevin2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/gifts).



‘See, you say an ‘L’, and sort of waggle your tongue at the same time.’ 

‘C—lu—’ 

‘Sideways waggle it. Inside your teeth.’ 

‘It’s impossible. How do you ever get anything said?’ 

‘You just don’t try. Complacent buggers, you Saeson.’ 

‘Well, we won, didn’t we? We don’t have to try.’ 

‘Ever wonder why you’re hated, do you? Apart from the land thefts, the paranoid bloody garrison towns, the trade restrictions—’ 

‘Ah, piss off. I’m trying, aren’t I?—hang on: fl—cl—Llewelyn. Howzat?’ 

‘Close.’ 

‘ _Close_ , it’s bloody perfect.’ Gower stretches and writhes inside an arming doublet that used to be a tight fit, back in those far-off, unimaginable days _before_. Everyone’s lost weight; too many people lost—well. It suits him, though, brings out the structure of his blunt, hardy-handsome face. Idiotically delighted with his new linguistic mastery, he repeats the name—your name— _sotto voce_ , or what passes for _sotto voce_ in Gower, a muted boom louder than your normal speaking voice. You swallow hard and dry and hope it doesn’t show that this is one of the staple constituents of your idle daydreams. He laughs. 

‘I’ll have to teach the missis how to do that.’ 

You join in, uneasily. There is a louse making its steady, unhurried way out of the collar of his doublet, mountaineering the prominent taut cords of his neck. You could reach out, pinch the life out of it, make map and memorial of its passage with your tongue. 

He gets there first, clapping a chapped, grimy hand over it. He catches your hungry look; you freeze, burn; he returns it, direct but unreadable. 

‘We should at least try and get a couple of hours kip.’ He gets up, dusts himself off, holds out the hand that was the louse’s death and doom. ‘You coming, Llewelyn?’ 

This time it's perfect.


End file.
